So That's What They Call A Family
by kaydi
Summary: Jack and Race have a secret, a secret they've been keeping from the other newsies. And someone wants to keep that secret silent forever. Even if he has to kill them to keep them silent.
1. The mysterious man

**So That's What They Call a Family.        **

Well, here it is. Anther story, another plot line. Sorry about keeping changing it, but I come up with all these different scenarios and I just have to write them. 

**                This one is a little different and I hope the idea works, though it is a lot like keeping secrets can kill. I tried to make them different but I dunno if it  worked. And yes, I am working on another one as we speak. But right now, I am very tired and am going to go crash. **

**                I don't own Jack or Race or Davy, you all know that. I know that, I don't care. I'm tired, goodnight. **

            **_" You stop right dere!" A sharp crack and then a thump as something heavy hit the floor.   Screams, coming from the next room, their parents bedroom.  _**

**_Outside the thunder roars, and the rain pounds against the window pain. But the two boys are much more frightened of the storm taking place in the very next room. They long for the added warmth and comfort of their older brother vanished for a week now.  This is what the latest fighting is about.  _**

**_"How can you expect me to live like this? How can you ask the boys to do this?"  More screaming, they try to block the sounds, but they only get louder and louder until…_**__

SLAM! Jack Kelly sat up, breathing hard.  It took him a long moment to realize where he was, but the sleepy groan from the bunk next to his face told him. He was in the Lodging House, his home for so long.  He was safe and sound, no screams or pain.  Well, his side did hurt a little, understandable since he'd just fallen from the top bunk. 

Racetrack Higgins, eyes blurry from sleep, peered at him from the lower bunk. Several other boys grumbled at the disturbance.  Jack shook his head, trying desperately to clear it. 

"Whatcha doin' down dere, Jackie?"  Race asked, his voice rough from sleep.  Jack blinked. 

"I dunno, I was dreamin', I guess.  Sorry."  There was a scattering of mumbled replies before the others drifted off to sleep, but Race gave him a hard look. 

"Audder nightmare?" he asked quietly.  Jack nodded. "Him, again?"  Jack did not reply, but Race saw, even in the dark, his leader's face get stone hard as he lifted himself back up into his bunk without another word.  He sighed. He understood Jack's hesitation; he understood it all to well. He'd known Jack far too long not to know. But, in spite of all he wanted to say, Race turned over and forced himself to try and sleep again. 

********************************************************

Across town, at Grand Central Station, a tall man with graying brown hair and a pale shallow face and small beady blue eyes got out of the last carriage of the last train that night. The conductor might not have remembered him later, but for the strange cold eyes the man had. They were ice cold and penetrating, making him feel very uncomfortable as he took his ticket and he didn't feel half relieved when the man got off.  He owned nothing in the world, but the clothes on his back, a small suitcase and an old yellowed newspaper, dated one year ago, and bearing the headline: The Children's Crusade; Newsies Stop the World.

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" Extry! Extry! Get yer papes!"  Jack shouted.  A man with a tall black hat offered him a penny and Jack handed him his paper with a " tank ya mista."  Then he grinned.  That was his last one. Now time for a nice supper with the boys. 

He had calmed down considerably since that horrible dream the previous night.  He frowned, shaking his head.  He used to have those dreams all the time after- No! He stopped himself just in time. 

You're Jack Kelly now, Jack Kelly, no one else.  He forced himself to stop thinking and concentrate on the nice pile of shiny coins in his pocket.  Maybe he would stop in and see Sarah before he went for dinner.  But then, dinner at the Jacobs's was always a cause for stopping. He smiled in spite of himself. 

Life after the strike had been interesting.  Newsies and street kids and even rich folk had found their way to Jack Kelly, amazed and intrigued by the boy who'd started the newsie strike.  At first it'd been   a little flattering, but soon people began to ask questions, questions he didn't want to answer.  He feared his fame might spread beyond the borders of the city, to a certain small state prison up north. 

He closed his eyes and shivered in the darkening street. The light was fading quickly, as it was apt to do in late fall, and the street was slowly emptying with workers going home to their families, and Jack decided it was time to head home to his.

"Jack!"  He waited as Racetrack hurried to catch up with him, before giving him the grin that made him so popular. 

"Hey Race. How's da track?"   Race shrugged, pausing to lit his cigarette. 

"Same old."  They smiled, sharing more in an exchange of looks than in words. 

"Wanna smoke?" he offered Jack the cigarette, which he accepted and took a long calming breath. 

"Come on, let's get somthin' ta eat." 

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David Jacobs was one street over and far less hungry than his orphan counterparts.  But at the moment he was far less happy.  It had something to do with his younger brother Les, a flock of pigeons and his last newspapers.  At the moment, he was scolding   Les, brandishing his wooden sword, when a voice broke through. 

"Excuse me, boy."  He turned to see a rather thin man, greasy light hair and pale skin. His eyes made David feel odd and he didn't like the stare the man gave little Les.  The eyes were the coldest ice blue he'd ever seen. 

"Yes?"

"Perhaps you could help me.  I'm trying to find my son." The man spoke in   harsh voice; David could feel the cold in the man's breath. 

"What makes you think I know your son?"  He asked. The man frowned, making him seem downright dangerous. 

"He was a newsboy, several years ago.  Perhaps he still is. Do you know Francis Sullivan?"  The name caused David to pause.    Francis Sullivan, Jack's real name and the name he'd promised never to call him.  He studied the man.  This was Jack's father? Well, as good as the man's intentions might be, David knew he couldn't possibly let his friend's secret go. He was one of the few who knew Jack's real name, or his family history, what little Jack had been willing to let go.  It didn't seem right to tell him.    He glanced at the clock above the square.  Close to dinnertime, Jack should be at the restaurant by now.  

 His thoughts were interrupted by a cough and he realized the man was still waiting for an answer. 

"Well, the name sounds familiar. But I've only been a newsie about a year or two. But I know someone who might know."   Just as he was about to give the man a few more details, the very topic of their conversation rounded the corner, his arm around Racetrack as they laughed, Jack holding a cigarette out of the younger, shorter newsie's reach.  

"Hey! Jack!"  He called, when his friend had reached half a block away. Jack looked up and grinned, waving, Race too.  Then both their eyes rested on the man beside  David. 

 He saw a strange expression he'd never seen on Race's face, as if he was  confused and was trying desperately to remember something just out of his reach.  But it was Jack's face that startled him. It was full of fear, naked unclosed fear.  He looked as if his worst nightmare had just come true. 

David approached his friend, noticing Race's  face  get twisted up even more and glance at his friend.  Suddenly, Jack seemed to get over his shock, grabbed the front of Race's shirt in one hand and David's arm in the other and  turned away,  taking off at a full run.  He heard shouting behind him and  turned to see the man chasing them. 

  He followed Jack as he  turned corner after corner and wondered if Jack even knew where he was going. Les trailed behind, until  David took pity on him and scooped him into his arms. 

 Three blocks later, David realized  they had turned onto his street and   motioned to  Jack and Race to follow him up to his apartment house.  The four of them dashed up the hall and burst into the small  apartment, Mr. and Mrs.  Jacobs  looking quite startled as four boys tumbled into their  apartment, and slammed the door shut behind them.  

"Boys, what happened?" Mr. Jacobs asked,  noticing the panting of  his two sons.  Jack shook his head,  and    his eyes widened as a fist pounded on the door.  In an instant, he had grabbed Race, hissed to the Jacobs's, " We ain't heah!"  and dove under the bed. 

 Les grabbed a blanket and hung it over the edge of the bed, allowing it to  cover the  two friends beneath it.  It was only after David made sure  his friends were hidden  that he allowed the door to open. 


	2. Brothers?

**Sorry this part is so short. I am so tired. I need more sleep and I need to stop staying up so late writing. Ugh, oh well. any of you writers out there know that nights are vastly overrated.  It's at night that the ideas come  So I deal with it. So here it is, goodnight. **

**I'm off to listen to the music man and shipoopi, (doncha love Max Casella) ;)**

Jack shivered under the bed, even though Race was pressed close.  He felt as if he were seven again, still protecting his little brother.  Race  glanced at him and  his face looked so confused.  Jack  put a finger to his lips and they listened. 

"I'm  sorry ta bodda you, but I came lookin' for me sons.  I saw 'em come in heah wid yer boy."  Jack peeked out from under the lace to see the hated man  standing there, looking  extremely worried as he wrung his  bowler hat in his hands.  Jack knew the wringing of the hat was not from worry, but just because he didn't have Jack's own neck  in his hands. 

"I'm sorry. There's no one here other than my children."  Mrs. Jacobs  answered.  "Isn't there, David?"  David nodded. 

"I split up with my friends a block ago, sir.  Maybe you should go look for them on the street. Besides, how do you know they were your sons?"   The man growled and Jack involuntarily shuddered and winced. Race  frowned again and  patted Jack's shoulder.  His hand involuntarily slipped into Jack's and he felt like they were children again, in the dark  days when  he was frightened and Jack was always there for him, those dim and distant days that reached back as far as his memory would go. 

" Wid dose faces?  I'd know from any distance. Dose boys look like a spittin' image of their muddas."  David  didn't seem to be  buying it. Jack saw him cross his arms. 

"Look, I jist wanna see me sons.  I know dey blame me for deir mudda, for leavin' em.  I made some mistakes and I jist wanna set tings right. Please tell me wherah dey are." 

Crocodile tears, Jack thought angrily.  If he  felt that way, he wouldn't have done what he did, he wouldn't have- no!  he  shook his head, he wouldn't think about it.  Francis Sullivan was  dead. 

"Sons?"  David spoke up. 

" Francis and Anthony. Little Anthony was only foah when I left. For deir mudda's sake, please."  Jack was shaking with anger by now.  How dare he even speak Tony's name?  How dare he? And for their mother's sake?  How  pathetic did this man  get?  He never did anything for her sake when he was alive, why start now?  Besides, Tony had been six. The hand around his was painfully tight.  He glanced at Race.  Race's eyes were shut tight and Jack wondered if he was remembering. 

 David must had seen through it because he   spoke then.                            

"Well, I'll talk to  Ja-, er, Francis the next time I see him."  and with that the door was shut.   Jack felt it hard to crawl out from under the bed, he was shaking so hard.  Race climbed out behind him and they both glanced at each other for a moment. 

"Jack,  what was that all about?" Mr. Jacobs asked. 

"Nothin', jist some family buzness."  He answered.  "Sorry to involve you like dat, but I ain't got no desire ta face that man taday or evea." 

"Who was he?" David asked, desperate for answers.  There was a long pause in which a thick tension filled the room.  All eyes were aimed at Jack who stared at the floor, looking nothing like the animated newsie who'd stirred up the whole of New York the previous summer.  All but Race. 

"So dat's him, eh?" he spoke, ending the silence.  Jack gave him a long hard look and nodded. David frowned. 

"That's who?  Who is he, Jack?"  Jack still refused to answer, but after a few seconds he lifted his head to look Race in the eye. 

"Ya mind?"  His younger friend shook his head. 

"He's bound ta find out sonna or lata."   Jack sighed and sat down at the table. Race took the chair next to him, leaning back. David sat next to Jack on his other side and   his parents took seats across from them.  Les found himself on his father's knee, while Sarah pulled up a stool.  Jack ran his fingers through his hair. 

"Dat man wus our fadda."  He said quietly.  There was a stunned silence. 

"Our?" David replied.  Jack nodded. 

"Yeah, Race's and mine."  Race took a long breath and glanced out the window.

David could only stare. How could the two of them be brothers? They looked almost nothing alike. Jack was tall, with light brown hair and light eyes, a prefect example of an Irish boy. Race, however, was short and dark, with dark brown hair and brown eyes. He seemed like the prefect Italian, but for his last name which suggested some Irish in him. 

"Brothers? You two?" 

"Half. Me ma married his pop." Race said. Jack nodded. 

"Yeah, me ma wus already dead and she wus da closet ting I eva had ta a mudda." Jack agreed. 

"Would you mind telling us why, then, you don't want your father to find you?" 

"It's a long story." Jack said, glancing at Race. 

"We have plenty of time." Mr. Jacobs told them.  Jack sighed and glanced again at Race. David was surprised to see the usually smart-ass loudmouth looking so lost and afraid. He wondered how old he really was.

Jack sighed and began. 

"Fine, but ya can't tell nobody.  Da only ones dat know is Medda and Spot. Nobody else." David agreed and his family was right behind him.  Jack took a deep breath and began. 


	3. A secret

So how's the plot going? Is it working for most of you? I hope so. So here's the next part, the flashback in a way. 

Go review! I'll go write! 

**The little boy seated on the steps of the train station in Santa Fe seemed no different than any other. Except that he was. He was so very different though he would not prove himself until years later. **

**_So now, this four year old with light sandy hair and a smile that had once lit up Manhattan was all alone. His older brother had been gone almost an hour, gone to let the family they had never met know that they had arrived. _**

Little Francis Sullivan wished that his mother was here. But she wasn't. She was underground back in New York, and their father had shipped him and his older brother out here, and out of the way. He had simply woken them up one morning and told them to gather their belongings and placed them at the station with two tickets in their hands. He patted their heads and said he would send for them when the time came. 

**_Two weeks later, they had found themselves in Santa Fe, alone and looking for Jack Kelly, their grandfather._**

**_The big rancher picked his little grandson up an hour later and deposited him onto his horse. Little Francis loved it and laughed the whole way. _**

**_Their grandmother had set aside a small room near the top of the ranch house for her two grandsons and began to spoil them silly.  She baked them cookies, and warm apple pie, and many other delicious things they had not had since their mother died. _**

Their grandfather took them on rides around his small ranch and taught them how to rustle cattle or stop a stampeding herd. He loved them both, the big gruff man. But he fell in love with the youngest. There was something about that boy that was special, he would be someone someday. 

**_Almost a year later, the telegram came that summoned the boys back to New York. With tears and hugs, they bordered the train again and sped off back to their home. But little Francis would always remember that year spent in Santa Fe, and long for it again. _**

**_ When they arrived, what they found was a shock. Their father was waiting for them, his arm around a young woman with long dark hair and pretty dark eyes. She was their new mother, he said, and he expected them to treat her as such._**

But what surprised Francis the most was not the woman, but the small little three-year-old boy she held in her arms. He looked so much like her, same eyes, same hair, and Francis hated the child. 

**_He hated this woman who had taken his mothers place and could hardly speak English, and he hated the boy who had taken his place as the baby of the family. _**

**_But one day, when he came home from school, on his birthday, he found a small batch of cookies waiting for him. They were light and just a bit spicy, but delicious. And all for him. _**

**_"I know I will never replace your mother," the young wife said to him, in her kind voice. "And I do not wish to try.  I am Anthony's mother, but not yours. But I would like to be your friend, if you let me." It was her smile, her kind and loving smile that won him over.  And the little boy threw himself into her arms. _**

**_From then on, they were a family, but only the three children and the mother. The father, was in all frankness, a brute, and a mistake to marry. It had killed his previous wife and he was a tyrant in his own home. _**

**_He took every penny he and his wife, who made a few by simple lace making, earned and poured it away in drink. If she dared argue, he hit her. And hard. He made no exceptions for his boys, even the baby._**

**_Anthony soon became Francis's favorite. It was good he liked him, for the younger boy clung to him like glue.  He took the boy everywhere, and was proud of him. Both boys were quick, so very quick at learning, and they took in everything. _**

**_Marinna Casella Higgins Sullivan loved it when she saw them playing. She felt bad for the boys who would probably never remember their real mother, and for her own son who would never know his real father, Sean Higgins, a fun loving Irish man in the British army who had fallen in love with the small beautiful Italian girl and they'd married. But he'd died soon after Anthony's birth ,and his wife, without options, had fled to America where she'd met a man who seemed to be prefect, but time was showing his true nature. _**

**_Soon the fights grew worse, the father began to hit her harder, so hard she couldn't get out of bed the  next day. Years had passed and Francis was seven, Anthony five. The eldest brother, James had fled that night, unable to handle it and leaving his brothers to fend for themselves. _**

The night their world spun out of control was a warm summer night. James had been gone for quite some time, almost a year and the fights hadn't stopped. The old man had taken to hitting Francis and even little  Anthony. Once he'd gone after Anthony with a knife, splitting his arm from wrist to elbow. 

**_Marinna was pregnant with the couple's first child from that marriage.  She was already in bed, panting and sweating, trying her best to keep from crying out. God knew where their father was that night, and neither boy had the slightest idea where to find a doctor, much less how to help their mother. So they just sponged her forehead and whispered kind words. _**__

It was a long time, but the baby was born. A girl, a beautiful girl with curly brown hair and bright blue eyes. 

**_"All babies have blue eyes." she whispered to her sons, who stared in wide-eyed amazement. She kissed their heads and rocked the screeching child until she was silent. Anthony smiled and crawled up beside her, touching the child's head gently. _**

**_Francis hurried out to make that warm soothing tea she was so fond of. Anthony stayed to keep her company. The apartment was silent, but it was a comforting silence. One that was rare in the Sullivan home. _**

**_Just as the tea was boiling, Francis heard footsteps on the stairs and turned around just in time to see his father march into the room. Francis made a face as he patted his son on the head and entered the bedroom. _**

*******************************************************************************

Here, Jack stopped. David frowned, wondering why and then following Jack's gaze to Race. 

The younger newies's face was calm, but one only needed look at the cigar clenched in his hand to see that something was wrong. Race's hand was shaking horribly as he gazed at the table, refusing to look at anyone. Jack took a deep breathe. 

"Ya wanna go outside?" he asked Race. In an instant, Race was out of his chair and had climbed out the window onto the fire escape, closing the window tight behind him. 

David turned to his friend, a look of confusion on his face.  Jack shook his head. 

"He can't do it." 

"Can't do what?" David asked, glancing at the pacing form out on the fire escape. 

"Can't hea dis." Jack took a deep breathe and ran his fingers through his hair. "Ya see, somedin happened in dat room, when de old man went in dere and when he left, she was dead. She and da baby, both dead. Only Race was in dere, only he knows whut really happened."  Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs stared at the boy they thought they had known, even Les didn't say a word. 

"She died?" Jack nodded. 

"He said he found 'er dead, da baby too. Da cops believed him, and he was neva charged." 

"Didn't you say anything?" Sarah asked. Jack shrugged. 

"What was dere ta say? No one knows what happened, not even me. Only Race, and he ain't talkin'. I doubt he even remembas." He said, watching the boy out on the fire escape. 

"Why not?" David asked. "Why don't you ask him?" Jack shook his head violently. 

"No! I ain't puttin' him trough dat! He didn't talk for two yeas afta. He don't memba nuttin' bout dat. He don't memba nuttin befoa Spot found us. He says he don't rememba nuttin about dat night, and I believe him. But we'se both loined ta leave it alone. I don't ask and he don't tell." 

"But if he did, he knows. He could put your father behind bars for the rest of his life, never to bother you again." David insisted.  "What if someone else was to ask him? Then you wouldn't have to." Jack shook his head, violently. 

"Dere ain't no way I'se lettin' dat happen. Race is me brudda and I gotta look out fer him." 

"And you want what's best for him, right?" David asked. Jack nodded. "Then think about this. Every second that goes by and he doesn't tell, your father could easily take one or both of you home with him. Then what? What if he takes Race home with him? What do you think will happen to him?" 

"He'd kill 'em." Jack said, his voice hoarse.  David nodded. 

"But if he does tell, then you could put him behind bars forever and never worry about it again." Jack shook his head and looked David in the eyes.

"Race ain't tellin', trust me." 

"But if we asked-" Jack seized David by the front of his shirt and glared at him. 

"I'm tellin' ya nice this time, Davy. Youse may be me friend and all, but Race is me brudda and I'll do anytin ta make sure he don't get hoit."  He glared at his friend. 

"And every second he's out there, alone, and your father is loose, he's in danger. At least, if someone knew, then if something happened to him, it could still be alright, but as long as he's the only one who knows, he's in danger." David said, his calm voice reminding Jack painfully of the truth. Jack let go of his friend and sat down, burying his head in his hands.

"I know, I know. I'm tempted to not let him sell tamorra, but I know he wouldn't listen anyway.  Whudda I do, Davy?" he asked.  Davy sighed.  It felt strange when Jack did  not know what to do, when Jack need guidance or advice. He had always had the words, but Jack had the heart to back them up and he was who  the boys followed. 

"Ask him. Just ask him, plain out what happened." Jack sighed. 

"I ain't axed  him in yeas. I hoped I would neva havta."  But he got up and tapped on the glass, signaling to Race that he could come back in. Race climbed in the window, looking just a bit pale and Jack wondered if this was a good idea. He took a deep breath. 

" Race, I gotta ax ya somedin. I know I promised, but I gotta know. What happened dat night wid Ma?" it was obvious the question was not one Race wanted to answer. The small smile on  his face vanished and he began to shake violently. He stared at Jack, as if begging him not to make him do this. 

"Ya promised, Jack." He whispered, his voice shaking as much as his hands, "Ya promised ya'd neva make me tink about dat." 

"I know, I know, but Davy tinks it's a good idea if someone else knew. Just ta be safe." Race began shaking harder if that was possible. He shook his head. 

"I don't rememba." He murmured. Jack shook his head. 

"Yes, ya do. Ya rememba, if ya didn't ya wouldn't be shakin'." Race felt blindly for a chair and sat down, rocking back and forth, gasping for breath. David knelt beside him. 

"We just need to know what happened. That's all, I promise. Then you can forget." Race shook his head. 

"Ya don't get it. I don't rememba,  but it'll come back. It always comes back. Den I can't ferget. Den I can't get da sounds and da sights outta me head. I don't wanna rememba. Please don't make me do dat, Jack. Please." He sounded like a little boy, pleading with Jack not to make him do that.  Jack knelt beside Race, his hand on his shoulder. Race looked up at him, terrified. 

"I won't, Race. I won' t ax ya dat." But David shook his head.  He stood in front of Race and took a deep breath. 

"He might not, Race, but I will. All you have to do is say what happened. That's all."  He waited for a response, but heard nothing.  He paused and looked closely at Race.  The boy's eyes had glazed over and he was rocking slowly, his knees pulled up to his chest. He stared unseeing at nothing.  Jack groaned. 

"Oh great!" he took a hold of Race and pulled him into a tight hug. Race had no reaction as Jack held him. He only stared and every once and a while, he gave a small whimper. 

"What's wrong? Is he alright?" Mrs. Jacobs asked. Jack shook his head as he stroked Race's hair, rocking him. 

"No, he's remembain'. I told ya he wouldn't tell, he jist goes inta some kind of state where he can't see nuttin but whateva happened in dat room. He'll come out of it, in a few minutes and he'll rememba nuttin." Jack said, even as Race blinked and  his eyes returned to their normal color, looking around the room in confusion. 

Race frowned, his mind feeling strangely blank.  He moved out of Jack's arms and got unsteadily to his feet, before clutching blindly for a chair. He sat down and closed his eyes. 

It was as if he did not notice the people looking at him, only blindly taking the cigarette Jack offered and lighting it, inhaling deeply to calm his racing heartbeat. 

He took several deep breathes, and frowned, trying to remember what was wrong. He felt weak and shaky, but had no idea why. And he was tired, so  very tired. Already, his eyes were drooping as he smoked. 

"Mrs.  Jacobs, can we stay da night?" Jack asked. The older woman nodded, her motherly instincts flaring up for her sons friends, especially the younger one. She took the cigarette away and led Race to David's bed. 

"You two can use David's bed tonight. David, you can sleep with Les." David nodded, as Race climbed into bed, not even bothering to take  off his shoes or vest. Jack did it for him, and climbed in beside him. Race was already asleep when Mr. Jacobs blew out the lamps a minute later. 


	4. Chase

Oh, part four! What is going to happen now? Hmmmm? Hehehe, I love doing this.  
  
Sorry, I am in a very good mood today. I just got back from a voice lesson, in which I finally nailed that evil b flat, (any music people will be able to understand me) and I'm in a very good mood so when I'm in a good mood you get more chapters! Two! Yay!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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The next morning, Race was awakened by Jack shaking his shoulder. Without a word, he got up and dressed, a bit surprised at his surroundings, but not saying a word. Mrs. Jacobs had a small breakfast for them and they ate as the four newsies walked to the distribution station. Once there, Jack pulled Race aside.  
  
"Race, I need ya ta do me a fava. Stay in town taday. Sell wid somebody, Blink, Mush, Crutchy. I don't cae. Jist don't sell alone. Aight?" Race frowned.  
  
"Why can't I sell by meself? I can take cae a meself, Jack. I ain't no kid no more." Jack nodded.  
  
" I know. But I don't want ya ta get hoit. I ain't lettin' him hoitcha." Race rolled his eyes.  
  
"I know, Jack, I know. But it still don't answah why I can't sell alone." Jack glared at the younger more stubborn newsie.  
  
"Look, if ya can't at least do a little ta make surah he don't find ya, I'se sendin ya ova da bridge and I'll let Spot deal widcha, ya want dat?" Race sighed heavily.  
  
"Fine! Fine, I'll sell wid Blink."  
  
Kid Blink seemed a bit surprised when Race asked to sell with him, the smart mouthed newise usually sold with no one and made that clear that he needed no one and could take care of himself. But Race was his friend and he looked forward to the opportunity to spend time with him. And so the two set off into the city to sell their papes.  
  
It was late in the evening when Race and Blink made their way across the street from Central Park, to grab a bite to eat. Race, though he missed the racetracks, was glad for the time he got to spend with his two best friends other than Jack.  
  
Blink and Mush were all for stopping by Tibby's, but Race paused.  
  
"I'll meetcha dere. I gotta stop somewhere's foist." Blink hesitated, remembering Jack's word to not let Race out of his sight. But Race raised an eyebrow to his protests. "I'se jist gonin' ta Medda's! It ain't too much oudda da way, besides, I'll go straight ta da lodgin' house. I sweah." He even put his hand over his heart, making his friends laugh. Mush was inclined to agree with Race, but Blink frowned.  
  
Jack had been very insistent on not leaving Race along, and Blink prided himself on doing exactly what Jack told him to do, keeping his leader's faith in him.  
  
"Jack told us not ta leave ya alone, Race. He acted like it was a big deal." Race shrugged and lit a cigarette he'd bummed off of Mush not five seconds ago.  
  
"If Jack told ya ta jump off da Brooklyn Bridge, wouldcha?' Blink had to laugh now. Race did have a point. It was only to Medda's and that wasn't too far from the lodging house, only a few blocks.  
  
"Nah, but if Spot told me to, I jist might." The three shared a laugh over that. If the Brooklyn leader told you to do something, you better well do it. Every newsie in the city knew that.  
  
They parted ways on Duane Street and Race walked on past it, smoking the cigarette and hurrying past the darkening alleys to the brightly lit Irving Hall, only a few blocks down.  
  
Race paused outside. Was it only a year ago? One year ago, all of them crowed into that hall, every newsie in New York. All protesting one thing. And no one had come away unscathed that night. Race flinched as he remembered the sharp boot that had impacted his side that night. But he had been beat worse, that was for sure.  
  
He absentmindedly rubbed the forearm of his left arm, fingering the white line that run up from elbow to wrist. Yeah, he had been beaten much worse than that.  
  
But now was not the time to think of that. He had said he was going to Medda's. What he really wanted was time to think. He was usually on his own all day, and the long trek from the tracks and back gave him plenty of time to think. And today he needed it more than ever.  
  
He sighed, maybe he would stop in and see Medda. She'd known him since he was a little boy, maybe longer. Since his mother had married the man he had known as father. Maybe she could tell him what to do.  
  
As he turned to go into the small side door, he paused. In front of it, with her plainer dress and handbag, was Medda, smiling and talking with a man. Race shrugged and moved forward.  
  
"Hey Medda!" he called. She turned to him and smiled. Moving to him, she pulled him into a big hug. Then she whispered in his ear.  
  
"Your father is here." Race froze, and stared over her shoulder at the man who hadn't seen him yet. Slowly, he turned, refusing to let the man see his face.  
  
"So who is your little friend, Medda?" Medda smiled, and stepped in front of Racetrack. She had known the boys since they'd gone by the name of Sullivan. And she knew what kind of man Thomas Sullivan really was. She had known him as a boy in the small upstate town where they'd grown up. But he had changed so much from that boy.  
  
She had seen him go through two wives, and produced four children. True, Race wasn't really his son, but he might as well have been. James had vanished long ago, no one had the slightest clue as to his whereabouts, and Jack and Race both cared little for the brother who had deserted them. And the girl, the daughter who hadn't lived long enough to be named.  
  
Medda remembered when she opened her door early that morning to find a mud spattered Francis, cradling his little brother whose dark eyes were wide with terror. When she questioned him, he refused to speak. It had taken little Tony almost two years to come out of his shell and when he had, there was little left of the child she had loved. And instead, Racetrack came to the surface. The cynical loud mouth with the wise guy back talk.  
  
"He's just a friend." She replied, motioning for Race to leave. But to go, Race realized, he would have to pass the man.  
  
"Really? He looks a bit young for you." He stepped forward and his face was illuminated by the streetlight. For an instant, he stared at Race, as if seeing a ghost. Then he reached out a hand to grab the front of Race's shirt.  
  
But Race had plenty of practice since the last time he had done that, and he quickly twisted out of the man's grasp. Without pausing to think, he ducked under the man's arm and sped off down the street.  
  
He could hear his father's feet pounding on the cobblestone behind him. Faster, Higgins, get da lead oudda yer pants, He thought. Only a few blocks, then he would be home. Safe and sound at home.  
  
He ducked down the small side street on which the lodging house was located and was dismayed to hear his father's voice call after him. He ignored it and shoved the door open, relived and distressed to see all his friends seated in the lobby, Jack included.  
  
Jack stood up as Race bent over, panting. He had to tell him, but could just point out the window and gasping for air. Jack looked over his shoulder, then grabbed him and yanked him behind the desk, ducking just as the door swung open.  
  
Kloppman gave them a bemused smile, but let them stay where they were. The man hurried to the counter, breathing just as hard as Race had been. Race fought to control his raging breathe. Jack held a finger to his lips and Race bit down, trying to make it stop.  
  
"May I help you?' Kloppman said in his usual, I'll take my time about it and you'll just have to wait until I'm ready, voice. The man's voice replied hurriedly.  
  
"Yes, I'm looking for my son. I just saw him come in here." Kloppman paused thinking.  
  
"A kid just ran trough da back doa." Blink spoke up.  
  
"Small, dark?" The man asked.  
  
"Italian midget, yeah." The man was out the door before anyone could say a word. Race stood up and glared at Blink.  
  
"I ain't no Italian midget." Blink only laughed, but his grin slipped from his face when he saw the look on Jack's. Race turned around and was faced with a rather angry newsie leader.  
  
"What did I tell ya bout wanderin' off, Race?" Race rolled his eyes and lit a cigarette.  
  
"Look, I jist needed some time ta tink. I ain't had a moments peace since yestaday. Not since youse insisted dat I ain't old enough ta take cae a meself." There was no mistaking the sarcastic and bitter tone in his voice.  
  
" I ain't sayin' ya can't take cae a yerself. I'm jist askin' ya ta be caeful, dat's all. He knows ya, and he'll do what he can ta get ya back." Race rolled his eyes again.  
  
" I ain't neva going' back and dere ain't nobody gonna make me. It's dat simple."  
  
"But it ain't dat simple! All he needs is a warrant, and a cop. Dat's all he needs ta take ya back!"  
  
"He ain't gonna, Jack!" Race's hands were clenched. "Dere ain't no way he's gonna have enough proof! And besides, I'se caeful!" Jack rolled his eyes, this time.  
  
"Oh right, like ya wus caeful tonight? Is dat da reason he was followin' ya?"  
  
"He wus at Medda's!" Race protested.  
  
"Look, he ain't jist goin' ta all dis trouble ta ferget about it! He's gonna keep at it, till he finds ya, den who knows what might happen!" Race glared.  
  
"Youse ain't worried bout me! Ya tink dat if he finds me, he'll find ya. Den he'll take youse back too! Dat's all ya cae about!"  
  
And with that he turned and stomped up the stairs, not even pausing to sign in. Jack sighed as the lodging room door slammed and he turned to the desk. Slowly, he made his way out the door and sat down on the front steps.  
  
The boys were silent. They were used to spats between them, maybe a fistfight between two of the boys who didn't get along so good, but Jack and Race were always the best of friends.  
  
Always teasing and picking on each other, but never taking it badly. Both had been there for, it seemed like forever. And they were close, almost like brothers, Blink had commented once. Jack and Race had only looked at each other and laughed. When Jack took control, Race was always given allowances when it came to certain things.  
  
If Race climbed in the window late at night while the rest were sleeping, Jack didn't blink an eye. If someone else did it, they got a lecture about being out late. Most assumed it was because that Race had never listened to Jack anyway, and he had simply given up.  
  
No one could ever really remember seeing them fight, not like this. Sure, everyone had their little spats. It was inevitable, living in the same room with twenty other boys. But the fights rarely were like this.  
  
That night, Race pointy ignored Jack, and everyone else, preferring his quiet game of solitaire to the poker game in the corner. When Blink had asked about it, Race had snapped at him, telling him to "Keep yer nose oudda audder folks bizness."  
  
This caused Jack to step in and argue that Race was not mad at Blink, and didn't need to be mean to the ones he wasn't mad at. Race retaliated with, "Whudda ya, me mudda?"  
  
Then Jack glared at him, long and hard, before answering, "Nah, I'm da closet ting ya gots." At this, Kloppman decided that enough was enough and sent the boys to bed.  
  
As he flicked off the lights, Race crawled into bed, and had to fight, for the first time since he was a child, the urge to cry. 


	5. Remember

I know, I know. Short chapter. But it needs to be that way. Otherwise it messes up the plot and I don't want to reveal anything too soon. 

Read and review!

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* The woman smiles at the little boys, red faced and shivering from the cold. They pounce on the tray of warm, spicy treats in front of them, made just for them on this cold winter day, from flour and sugar that cannot be spared. 

**_The cookies are worth the pinching and saving that will come, just for the looks on her children's faces. She picks up the youngest and hugs him tight, as he squirms for one more snack before his brothers finish them. * _**

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**_*A gentle voice, soft and sweet, sings to him gently. Warm arms wrap around him, sending all the hurt away. The bruises are still there and will be for days. _**

**_But for now, the man is gone and the boys are in need of comfort. The middle boy curls up beside them, and she takes him into her arms as well. Even the older one, who was not hit, crawls into her embrace. _**

**_She sits there, ignoring her own wounds, rocking her boys and wishing all the pain away. *_**

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The door opened slowly, letting a glimmer of light shine on the faces of the sleeping woman and baby. The boy watched from where he is curled up next to his mother. 

**_The man pays little attention to the boy, pausing only to give him a vicious backhand that sends him to the floor. The woman awakes at the child's cry, and gives a startled cry of her own, but in her weak condition, she can do nothing as he leans over her, a cruel sadistic smile on his thin bloodless lips. ------- _**

Race shot up, fighting for breath. The dorm room was dark, silent, and still, as it would be this late at night. He threw off the blanket and stumbled to the washroom. Once there, he pumped water into his hands and splashed it on his face. 

The water was just as cold as the air, but it served its purpose.  Race paused to catch his breath and dry his face. He glanced into the mirror and was shocked by what he saw. 

 The face staring back at him was thin and ghostly pale.  Wet and blazing eyes, with deep shadows under them, eyes that seemed both so eerily familiar and strangely alien, gazed back. 

The dream, he thought, he'd had it before.  He knew it, had felt it, had heard it, had lived it. But before, it had always faded as soon as his eyes opened. Not one part had ever remained. But not this time. 

He frowned. He remembered quite clearly the sights and sounds. He could still taste the cookies, still feel those arms around him, still hear that soft voice, crooning in Italian. He could still see that shallow face, still feel the pain of the blow, and he still felt the fear as the man had leaned over the woman. 

Race leapt back, staring at himself into the mirror. Little by little, the pieces were fitting together. Could it really be happening? Could he really be remembering?

Race had never recalled anything before that night in Brooklyn when Spot had found them, wandering the streets. He had been almost six at the time.  Try as he might, he could never remember the sound of his mother's voice, the soft touch of her hand, nothing of the woman who gave him life. 

He had never remembered that night, though Jack, then later Spot and Medda, and now Davy, had all tried to make him. It wasn't as if he had never tried. There was just simply nothing there. It was as if his life had started that night, when Jack introduced him, not as Sullivan, but Higgins, he'd gotten his newsie nick from Spot only a week later. About a month after that, Jack had moved them both to Manhattan, told him to forget they had been brothers, and they had both been there since. 

He had never remembered anything, but now it would seem that he was. And the question was did he want to? 


	6. Reconciliation

Here is another part. I hope you guys like this story. Tell me, is the plot flowing, is it believable? Just wondering. I'm working on another right now. See, I have a rule that I never post until I'm done with a story.  
  
I swear, it must be a jinx or something. Every story that I post without finishing, I never finish. So, if it takes a while for something to get out, please bear with me. Thanks. Read and review!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Jack sat up and groaned. He'd tossed and turned late into the night, before Snipes had complained and he'd forced himself to remain still until sleep came.  
  
Kloppman poked him one final time before moving on. Jack pulled on his pants and glanced at the bunk next to him. It had been slept in, but now lay empty, the blankets tossed carelessly to the floor as if flung in haste.  
  
Blink jumped down from above and yawned, eyeing the empty bunk. Jack looked at him, and Blink shrugged.  
  
"He got up eoily. Said he needed ta clea his head." Jack frowned harder. What had Race done this time? He sighed and gathered his clothes, too tired to care at the moment.  
  
When they got to the distribution station, Jack expected to see Race waiting for them, but he wasn't there. All day, he looked for him, even going as far as to send Mush and Blink up to the races, but they reported that no one had seen Racetrack.  
  
The sun was setting as Jack listened to Boots say that Race was not at Medda's and she hadn't seen him since the night before. Franticly, he thought.  
  
What if their father had seen him and snatched him off the streets? What if he'd gotten soaked, or worse. Where could he be?  
  
Then, a sudden thought struck him. It was a long shot, but just maybe. He hurried through the dimming streets of New York until he reached Central Park.  
  
The large gates were still open and Jack hurried inside. He passed bums and lovers, stragglers and businessmen. But he saw none of them. He only sped towards the small park he remembered so well. The one his mother had taken him when he was only a child, the one he had showed Race.  
  
When he turned the corner that opened up on the pond, he breathed a sigh of relief. A long figure, smoking a cigar and leaning against the railing lining the pond, stood there, his silhouette outlined in the setting sun.  
  
Slowly, Jack approached him and leaned forward beside him. Race glanced at him and turned his gaze back to the river in front of him. The huge buildings towered above the two.  
  
"So," Jack began, "wheracha get da cigar? I tought ya wus out."  
  
Race shrugged, "Stole it." Jack nodded. The silence between them was heavy.  
  
"So," he began again. Race still hadn't looked at him yet. "ya been heah all day?" Slowly, Race nodded. Jack sighed, he was sick of this silent treatment. Maybe he had been a bit overbearing, but Race still had to be careful and as his older brother, Jack had a responsibly.  
  
"Look Race, about last night-" he began, but Race spoke, ignoring the previous statement.  
  
"I had a dream." Jack looked at him.  
  
"So did I. We all have dreams." Race shook his head. Jack knew instantly what he was talking about. "Oh."  
  
"I had a dream, and I always ferget. Right afta. I kin neva memba nuttin'. But last night," he sighed, " I tink I'm startin' ta memba, Jack."  
  
Finally Race looked at him, and Jack saw the fear in his eyes. It was that haunted childhood fear. And Jack frowned. Did he hear him right? Was he really starting to remember?  
  
Jack remembered, he remembered all too well. He remembered his father leaving the room, and finding his mother and sister dead and Race curled up in the corner, rocking himself and whimpering. But the boy did not say one word and would not for two years.  
  
To his dismay, he had discovered that Race remembered nothing. He did not remember his father, his mother, he remembered nothing but Jack. And now, if he did remember, if he knew what happened in that room, Jack's heart lurched in his throat.  
  
"Memba what?" he asked quietly. Race took a long drag on his cigar. He turned his gaze back towards the pond.  
  
"Ev'rytin'." His fondest dream and his worst nightmare.  
  
"Like what?" Race sighed and dropped the cigar, snuffing it with his boot.  
  
" Li'l tings. Like da cookies she made fer us, like him hittin' me, drunk as hell and her holdin' me afta. I tink I memba Jamie, just a bit. And dat night, I wus wid her, sleepin'. And he came in. "  
  
"What he do?" Jack asked, breathless. If he could know, if he could just answer that simple question, the question that had burned him for so many years.  
  
But Race only shrugged. "I dunno. I woke up den." Jack let out a disappointed sigh, but he put a hand on Race's shoulder. The younger boy looked up at him.  
  
"Why?" he turned and slid to the ground, covering his head with his hands. If Jack didn't know better, he would think Race was crying, but he knew better. Jack slid down next to him. Race's shoulders were shaking, even though no tears came from his eyes.  
  
"Why did I haveta memba, Jack? I don't wanna." He touched Race's shoulder. Gingerly at first, then he slipped an arm around his brother.  
  
"Ya rememba all a' it?" Race shook his head.  
  
"Jist bits. But it's been comin' back all day. But dat night, I ain't membain' nuttin bout dat night. I don't wanna, I really don't wanna, Jack." Jack nodded.  
  
"Den ya don't havta." He eyed the now dark sky. Night had fallen and they would miss dinner if they weren't late.  
  
"Ya have anytin' ta eat taday?" Race shook his head. Jack got to his feet and helped Race up. "Den let's go grab somdin' at Tibby's. K? Me treat." Race nodded and they set off.  
  
The other boys had to be a bit surprised when Jack and Race returned, smiling and laughing, both acting as if the previous evening's events had never transpired.  
  
They both dropped in the middle of the poker game and were instantly dealt cards. Within a matter of minutes, Race had won that game and was well on his way to winning the second. He laughed and smoked his cigar, blowing smoke in the face's of his friends whose cigarette smoke was no match for the cigar. Things were back to normal, at least for now. 


	7. Uninvited

Hey, guys. Sorry for the delay. First I h ad a bunch of my friends over on Friday, and then I was so exhausted on Saturday, I slept almost all day. I feel a lot better now and so I'm going to post again. 

This part is a little more action packed than the others have been.  And it's kind of similar to keeping secrets can kill, but it was a part that was kind of necessary for the plot. Anyway, here it is.

Thanks for reading and reviewing, and T.H., you go post your story! I wanna read it, now! *hint hint* 

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The next few days passed in relative peace, with not sightings of Thomas Sullivan, much to the relief of Race and Jack. But there was always that shadow in a dark alley that made them jump, that drunken voice in on the street that made them check and make sure, that horrible doubt that hovered in the back of their minds, never letting them forget. 

For Race, it was if a door was slowly inching its way open in his mind. Every day brought a new memory. Some were good, and some were bad, and some made him wish he had never remembered them at all. But that night, that one memory that held the key to his future, that remained dark. 

He could never recall that night, never. He could remember his mother's light accent, the sound of the Italian rolling off her tongue and his own. He could remember the time his father had cut him with the knife, splitting his arm. He could remember the time his father, in the one moment of kindness, took his three sons to the racetracks and hooked Race on those tracks for life.  But that night remained vague, dancing just out of his reach. 

The sun was high in the sky, and blazing hot as Race hawked his headlines, Mush at his side. Jack still refused to let Race sell alone, but they had come to a comfortable arrangement. 

Still, Race was feeling a bit better about it all. No one had seen or heard from his father in over three days. A good amount of time. And while, Race seemed to relax, Jack only worried more. 

"Sumdin ain't right, Race. He ain't one ta jist give up. He's plottin' sumdin, sumdin bad," 

But today, Race didn't care. It was too hot to think of anything besides the task at hand, and even still Race's thoughts were concentrated on finishing soon and stopping at Tibby's for some lunch and a nice cool glass of sarsaparilla. 

"Race! Mush!"  The two friends turned to see Kid Blink hurrying towards them through the crowds. When he got to them, he gave them a weak smile. 

"Wassamadda?" Race asked him. Blink fidgeted for a second, before handing him a small piece of paper. 

"Some bum stopped me in da street and told me ta give dis ta ya." Race unfolded it, unsure of what it might contain, but positive about where it was from. 

**My dear son, **

**Please give your old man one last chance and come home. **

Your father 

Race shook his head and crumbled it in his fist. Angrily, he threw it to the ground and walked off, yelling the headlines. Blink and Mush followed, confused. 

But it was only the beginning. That night, as they gathered in the lobby, a delivery boy entered, looking none too happy about venturing into this part of town so late. 

He pulled off his hat and gingerly took out the telegram from his pocket. 

"Is there a Racetrack Higgins here?" Race stood up, pulling the cigar out of his mouth. 

"Yeah, whadda ya want?" the boy nervously handed over the telegram.  Race took it, glaring at the boy and enjoying making in so uncomfortable. 

But then, as the boy retreated out the door, Race was reminded of the task at hand. He ripped open the envelope and pulled out the telegram. The other boys watched him, excited. 

But the look on his face quickly went from confused to frightened. He dropped his hand and crinkled the paper into a small ball, and hid it in his coat pocket. 

But Jack wasn't that easily swayed. He cleared his throat and held out his hand. Race sighed and handed him the paper ball. Jack unfolded it and read. As he read, his frown got deeper. 

Then, he too crushed the note in his fists. "Race, ya ain't sellin' tamorra." Race's eyes instantly widened as he protested. 

"But Jack!" Jack shook his head. 

"Ya ain't! And dat's dat!" and there was no more spoken about it. 

Race lay awake in bed. The sun had long ago rose, and the boys left. He'd awoken with the others, but Jack had ordered him back to bed, and so he had pulled the covers over his head and had pretended to be asleep. 

In reality, he had never been farther from it. Sure, he should have rolled right over and gone back to sleep. God knows how little sleep he got. But there was something bothering him. 

This whole thing. Why was it him, his father was after? Why not Jack? And how did his father figure out his name? 

Why does he keep trying to contact me? Race wondered. Can't he see that we want nothing to do with him? But then he never did care what anyone else thought. He did what he wanted and too bad, if you got in his way. 

And, if what Jack said was right, didn't his insistence about seeing his sons make him seem even more guilty? Jack was convinced the man had done something wrong. Something that had caused the deaths of his stepmother and half sister. But Race was the only one who could confirm that fact. And try as he might, he could never really remember. 

Race sighed and rolled over, staring at the bright sun as it filled the room. Why couldn't things just stay the way they had been for so long? There was the strike one year ago that had changed everything he'd ever believed it, and now this. Just when things were starting to go back into their old routine, he has to show up. 

Race shook his head and sighed again. Suddenly, he heard footsteps on the stairs. He closed his eyes and pulled the blanket up to his chin, pretending to be asleep. 

But something was wrong; these footsteps were heavy and loud. Not like the softer slower tread of Kloppman, or the hurried light steps of the boys.  They were strange and at the same time, very familiar. 

They made their way into the bunkroom, pausing by Jack's. Race's heart began to beat faster, but he didn't open his eyes. Who was it, and where was Kloppman? No one could just wander in, not while Kloppman stood guard at the desk below. 

But wait, Race thought, wasn't today Wednesday? The day Kloppman went to the market to get the food for the week? He resisted the urge to shiver. 

The footsteps began again, this time making their way around the bunks to his, pausing right in front of his face. Race kept his eyes closed, trying his best not to shake. A hand reached out and brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. 

            Race didn't think he'd been this scared in a long time. But there was something wrong, he could tell. People don't just walk into newsboys lodging houses. 

            The hand stayed on the side of his head, stroking his hair. Then it slipped down to his throat. Race's heart quickened as the hand was joined by another and they tightened around his throat. 

            Time to stop playing! He thought as he jerked his eyes open and was shocked to see his father, bending over him, his hands around his throat and pushing him back against the mattress. 

            The hands tightened, causing him to loose the air in his lungs. His breath wasn't coming and he reached up, trying to pry the hands away so he could breathe again. 

            He fought, twisting and kicking out, but nothing was working. The man was stronger than him, and angrier. 

            Race could hear the muttered words streaming from his father's lips, but between his rapidly fading consciousness and the mumblings, he could make out none of them. 

            The room was getting darker, his chest tighter, but Race fought harder. He had to get away, had to breathe! The bloodshot eyes of his father were not the last things he wanted to see. 

            Suddenly, there came a slam from downstairs as the front door opened and closed.   His father jerked up, staring for a moment before letting Race go and dashing out the door, down the steps and outside. 

            Race heard Kloppman yell for a moment, but then came those familiar footsteps on the stairs. He sat up, hands around his throat, gasping for breath, trying to clear his mind. 

            Kloppman was by his side in an instant, gently helping him sit up and urging him to breathe. Soon, the air began to flow again and Race was able to lie back down. 

            Kloppman eyed him carefully. He never asked one thing, letting Race decide whether or not to say anything. Race chose not to, and he knew Kloppman wouldn't ask. For that he was grateful. But he knew the old man would tell Jack, and Jack would want to know. 

            "Ya alright, Race?" he asked. Race nodded. 

            "Yeah, I tink so." He nodded and moved aside as Race stumbled to his feet. His head still felt light and the room spun a little, but as he got used to it, the spinning stopped. 

            Kloppman let him get dressed before leading him downstairs to get a bite to eat. The old manager was not the best cook in the world but he was decent. Enough to satisfy twenty boys who were happy with a piece of bread and a mug of water, as long as it was food. 

            The rest of the day the two passed playing gin, Race losing spectacularly to the old man. They laughed about it, and it did lift Race's spirit, and get his mind off of the events of earlier. 

            That night when the newsies returned, Race greeted them with a grin and held up a pack of cards. Instantly, Blink and Mush were beside him as he dealt the cards. 

            But Jack was pulled aside by Kloppman who proceeded to whisper to him in a low voice. Race had no doubt about what he was saying, but he pretended not to notice. 

            Slowly, Jack made his way over to the card game. Kloppman's words still echoed in his ears. Someone had tried to kill Race, tried to strangle him while the old man had been out. 

            At the moment, Race looked fine. But as Jack looked closer, he could see the dark bruises on the boy's neck that he had taken measures to hide. He laughed as he displayed his winning hand and his friends groaned. As Race began to shuffle the cards again, Jack approached him. 

            He yanked Race up by his collar and pulled him across the room. Race protested, and the rest of the boys turned to look. But one glare from Jack sent them back to whatever they had been doing. 

            Jack pulled Race into a corner, than shoved him around to look at him. Race glared at him, still annoyed at having been pulled away from his beloved game. 

            "What were ya tinkin?" Jack asked, glaring at Race. 

            "About what?" he shot back. Jack pulled his collar back, revealing the dark stains on his skin. Race jerked away, readjusting his shirt. 

            "Look, he got in heah. It ain't like I let him in." 

            "Ya said youse wus gonna be caeful, Race!" Jack said, but careful to keep his voice down. Race rolled his eyes. 

            "I ain't got no moa control ova who walks in dat door den youse. So don't go blamin' me! I ain't done nuttin!" he whispered harshly, "I don't wanna die no moa den youse, but hidin' away ain't gonna do nuttin about it!"

            Jack's temper softened at Race's words and he sighed. " Look, I'se jist worried aboutcha, kid. Dat's all." Race glanced at the floor and nodded, understanding. Jack smiled and Race grinned back. He put his arm around the younger boy and smacked the rim of his cap over h is eyes. Race pushed it up and mock glared at him. 

            "Don't call me kid." Jack laughed. 

            "Whuteva ya say, kid." With that Race decided to steal the hat from Jack's head and dash away with it. Jack followed and Race tossed the hat to Blink who laughed and joined in the chase, throwing the hat back to Race who threw it to Mush, and so on. It was a very exhausted, but happy bunch of newsies who crawled into bed at Kloppman's insistence. 


	8. I remember

I am so sorry for the delay! My computer stopped working on Sunday and I just got it to work again. Ah! You have no idea how crazy it's been making me. but oh well, here is the eight part of this story and the climax, if you will. Go read! review! And T.H., you get that story out! I wanna read!  
  
Oh, and races-goil-only has a great story out called running from the past! Go read! very good!  
  
I have to go to bed! Night!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Each day after that, there were notes slipped under the door, handed to him on the street. Beggars ran up to him on the street, which made him nervous. It meant the old man was watching. They came two, maybe three, times a day. From all different sources. They were left on his table at Tibby's, tucked in his papes, handed to him, mailed to him. And Race tore up every one.  
  
Each note was the same. They begged, cajoled, threatened, and bribed. Race ignored each one and tore it up before Jack saw.  
  
Maybe if he sees dat I ain't listenin, he'll get oudda ea, Race thought. He prayed it would work, following Jack's advice, staying out of dark alleys, selling in a group. He thought he was being careful.  
  
Almost three days had passed, and Race was still ignoring the notes. He had bribed Blink to keep quiet, and begged it from Mush. The two weren't sure, but they kept their mouths shut for Race's sake.  
  
But he couldn't have hoped to keep it from Jack forever. He could try, but he knew he wouldn't. And Jack found out on a warm summer night.  
  
Race had tucked the last note, handed to him by an orphan boy, into his pocket, thinking to throw it away. But as the day went on, he forgot about it, thinking about the more important task of selling his papes and making a living.  
  
So when he yanked off his shirt that night, and the note went tumbling to the ground, Race didn't notice it. But Jack did. He picked it up and unfolded it.  
  
His light eyes narrowed and he grabbed Race's shoulder, spinning him around to face him.  
  
"When didcha get dis?" Race took the note and promptly turned pale. He frowned, trying to remember.  
  
"Dis mornin', maybe? I dunno." He shrugged, but Jack held him in place, glaring at him, and crumpling the letter in his fist. The noise of the dorm room stopped as people braced for another fight.  
  
"When, Race?" Jack growled. Race shrugged again.  
  
"I dunno, Jack! I can't memba one from da udda!" As soon as he said it, he knew it was a mistake.  
  
"One from de udda? Ya mean dis ain't de only one? Ya mean ta tell me, he's been sendin' dese all week and ya ain't told me nuttin?" Jack's voice was rising. And it was not happy. Race shrugged again, acting like it was not big deal.  
  
"I tought, maybe, if he saw I ain't in'erested, he'd go away. Leave us alone. Ya know?" Jack threw up his hands and groaned.  
  
"Race, he ain't eva goin' away! Neva! Not while's youse heah! Doncha get dat?" and he stormed from the room.  
  
Race sighed as he heard the front door slam; he'd done it again. He'd made Jack angry. And now Jack was gone. Race glared at the door, and the fellow newsies staring at him in shock.  
  
"Go on, da show's ova!" he yelled at them. They turned back to what they had been doing, with the expectation of Blink. He put his hand on Race's shoulder.  
  
"What's wrong, Race?" he asked. Race shoved him aside and moved towards his own bunk, ripping up the note in his hands.  
  
"Nuttin, " he mumbled and Blink moved away. "Nuttin dat can hoit me." he whispered after his friend was gone.  
  
He stared out the window. Jack had just marched outside, not even caring that he had violated his own rules. Race snorted, almost a cynical laugh. Sure, Jack made the rules, but did he have to follow them? Nope. He rolled over and pulled the covers to his chin.  
  
He glared at the empty top bunk that did not hold his brother. His brother who was probably wandering around New York, all alone. Race sat up, banging his head on the top bunk.  
  
Blink grumbled and glared down at Race, but the boy was too busy yanking on his shirt and shoes to notice. Jack was alone, in the city, alone and in danger.  
  
Didn't he say that his father wanted him back too? Race lived up to his name, racing to the other side of the room and climbing out the window. The other boys hurried after him, but Race ignored them, he had to find Jack.  
  
And so he began wandering the streets, wondering where Jack would go. Not Brooklyn, too far. Not the park, too busy, too bright. The harbor? Maybe, but it would be crawling with sailors and whores and the like tonight. The bridge?  
  
Race glanced at the large Brooklyn Bridge. And slowly, he made his way towards it.  
  
He hadn't gone more than two steps, when he heard voices from an alley, familiar voices. One heard daily, and one out of a dream. Both shouting.  
  
He moved silently, the way Jack had taught him, towards the alley, and peeked around the corner. Then he almost shouted at what he saw.  
  
His father, the damned old man, was standing over Jack, who was laying on the ground, his ankle bent at an odd angle. In the man's hand was a long sharp, needle edged dagger that glinted deadly in the moonlight. He had the weapon raised above his son's head and he laughed as he said the words that were to be the last thing Jack heard.  
  
"Make yer peace wid God, kid." They were softly whispered, in a hard cruel voice, but that was all it took to unlock the key.  
  
  
  
1.1 FLASH------ The man leaned over the woman, smiling into her pale horrified face. He looked to her side and picked up the newborn baby. Rocking it gently, he whispered. "So soft, so tiny."  
  
1.2 She nodded and held out her arms for the child, but he did not say a word to her. Instead, he pulled a pillow from behind her head, making her head fall back against the iron bed frame harshly.  
  
1.3 Then he placed the pillow over the baby's face. "So tiny and soso expensive. Can't afford another mouth to feed." The woman began to cry, as she reached for the baby. She fought to get to her feet, but she couldn't, not in her weakened state.  
  
1.4 The child struggled, just a bit, as the pillow was pressed down. But all too soon, the tiny arms ceased to flail, and the miniature legs stopped kicking. He pulled the pillow away and glared at the still form in his arms, tossing it to the bed.  
  
1.5 Then he leaned over her once again. "Sorry ya had ta see dat, love." He whispered, " But don't worry. You'll be wid her soon." With that he picked up the pillow, placing it over her own face.  
  
1.6 She fought him, but he was bigger, stronger, not suffering from a hard birthing only an hour before.  
  
1.7 Just before he pressed down, he whispered, "Make yer peace wid God." Then he shoved hard. She kicked and fought, but only for a moment. Then her hand that had been clawing at him, fell limp at her side, her wedding ring slipping off her too thin finger and clattering to the floor, pausing to rest in front of the five-year-old boy. -----FLASH  
  
  
  
  
  
1.8  
  
1.9 "NO!" two faces served to look at him. Jack's was suddenly relieved, then horrified.  
  
"Race, get oudda ea!" his voice was panicked, desperate. But Race was beyond hearing him now. His eyes were strangely glassy, and he was swaying on his feet.  
  
His father stared at him, then moved towards him quickly. Jack grabbed his shirt and pulled him back, away from his little brother. His father backhanded him viciously and Jack fell backwards.  
  
"Leave him alone!" Race yelled, glaring at the man who was coming at him rapidly.  
  
"Why Tony, I'm hoit. Ya neva answad any a me lettas, not once."  
  
"Don't call me dat!" Race shouted, stepping back. "Don'tcha eva call me dat! Tony's dead! Ya killed him when ya killed me ma!" The man rolled his eyes.  
  
"What should I call ya den? Racetrack? Who came up wid dat pathetic excuse fer a name?" he laughed and stepped closer.  
  
"I did." Jack said, his voice strange, carrying above the man's head to comfort Race. His father turned around to see Jack leaning against the wall, wobbling, but on his feet.  
  
"Oh den dat would make sense dat a spineless little weakin' like youse would do something like dat." He moved closer to Jack and hit him, sending him back to the ground.  
  
"Stop it!" Race yelled again, trying desperately to do something to help his brother who was slowly, crawling to his feet, wincing as he put weight on the weak ankle. His father moved to hit Jack again, this time with the butt of the knife, and Race looked around, desperate.  
  
In an instant, he'd grabbed a long wooden board and picked it up, slamming it against his father's skull. The man tumbled to the ground and Race dropped it, reached out for Jack.  
  
Jack grabbed his hand and pulled him away, limping more than Crutchy. But they hurried. Behind them, Race could hear the drunken footsteps of his father, and urged Jack faster.  
  
They reached the bridge and kept going, too frightened to look back, too frightened to stop. Suddenly, Race felt a hand on his shoulder and was yanked from under Jack who fell to the ground by the railing.  
  
Race was spun around to face his father's growling glare. The man hit him, once, twice, three times with the butt of the knife. Race crumpled to the ground, covering his head. When he felt no more blows, he looked up.  
  
To his horror, the old man had moved to Jack and was holding the knife above his head again. Race reacted without thinking, diving at his father and digging his fingers into the man's leg.  
  
His father roared in anger and threw Race off. Race landed hard against the iron railing of the bridge. Jack watched in horror as their drunken father turned his rage on his youngest son.  
  
He struggled to his feet, just as Race did, but that did little for him. In fact, it was worse as the old man charged the boy, slamming him hard into the iron railing.  
  
Jack's mind was a blank as he watched father and son grapple for the knife. Race suddenly broke free and ran towards the other side of the bridge. His father was after him in an instant, charging headlong into the side and almost over the edge.  
  
The old railing was rusting and slowly deteriorating. So when Race was shoved up against it that hard, it began to brake. As more weight was added, the forcing of his father against him, it snapped.  
  
Race felt the cold metal under him give way, and suddenly, there was nothing. He reached his arm out, grabbing at something, and latched onto a side bar, coming loose.  
  
His father was not so lucky, he fell past Race, only to succeed in grabbing a hold of the boy around his waist. Race's grip had been slippery at best, but now with the added weight of his father, the boy's hand was already halfway off.  
  
Jack grabbed at him, reaching him and holding on tight. Race implored him with a look to never let go.  
  
"I gotcha, Race. I ain't lettin' go. I gotcha."  
  
"Jack-" but whatever he had been going to say was cut off, as their father decided to save himself and to climb up his son, digging the knife, still clutched in his hands, into his son's side.  
  
Race's eyes suddenly became wide and his mouth fell open in a shock gasp as the knife dug into his chest. He tried to speak, but nothing came out but a few strangled noises.  
  
Jack looked down and saw. He held on tighter, praying for his strength to hold out for just a few more minutes. "Jist hang in dere, Race. Hang in dere, buddy. Please doncha let go."  
  
Race could no longer form words as the knife was dug deeper. His mouth moved, maybe pleading, maybe cursing, maybe praying, but nothing came out. Still, in the silence, Jack could make out Race's mouth, moving to form words, some he recognized, some he didn't. Among those he knew were please, and God, and his brother's name.  
  
"Don'tcha let go, Race!" Jack yelled, trying not to let the tears fall from his eyes and failing horribly. His voice hitched. Race's hand slipped one more inch. "Racetrack Anthony Higgins! Do not let go a me hand!" he screamed. Race closed his eyes and let out a small noise, almost like a whimper.  
  
Then he clenched his teeth and kicked out, sending the horrible man's grip loose. He flailed for an instant, trying to grab something, anything, but his hands were like butter. He slid down, finally falling free to scream as he fell to the icy black waters below.  
  
Jack didn't hesitate, and yanked Race through the bars back onto the bridge. When he saw the wound, he groaned. Blood was pouring from Race's side and the boy's eyes were fluttering closed, as he fought back the darkness.  
  
Jack cradled his head in his arms, begging him to keep his eyes open, to just keep breathing. But Race could no longer speak, the pain was fading and so was Jack's face.  
  
As the boy's eyes struggled to stay open, Jack looked around. They were alone, and there was no one would be on the bridge tonight. No one to help them. It was up to him to do now the thing he had failed in before. To save his little brother.  
  
Slowly, and with great care, Jack pulled himself to his feet, trying to ignore the horrible protests of his ankle, which fought him in supporting his weight. Then he scooped up the bleeding boy and cradled him in his arms.  
  
Race tried to speak, tried to protest, but Jack only began to walk. Soon the jarring unsteady motions were too much for Race and he finally closed his eyes. Jack felt the boy's head lull back to the side, limp on his shoulder. He could feel the cold blood seeping through his side into his shirt. And his resolve grew.  
  
Soon, he felt no more pain in his ankle, he just walked, straight and as fast as he could, knowing time was everything as his brother lay, bleeding to death in his arms.  
  
Finally, he made it to the first sanctuary he knew of, the Jacobs's apartment house. He took a deep breath and began to make his way up the fire escape, praying someone would still be awake.  
  
When he reached their window, there was still a light on in the kitchen and Davy sat up, a book open on the table. Jack raised his fist and pounded on the glass. Davy looked up and grinned, hurrying across the room to let his friend in.  
  
At this moment, Race opened his eyes, just as Davy opened the window. He caught Davy's look of surprise to see Jack carrying him, then all went dark again.  
  
"Jack, why are you carrying Race?" Davy asked, a bit of humor in his voice. Jack's face held no laughter though, as he handed the boy through the window, with Davy's hands supporting the limp boy. Then he made his way through himself.  
  
As soon as his ankle touched the ground, the pain came flaring back and he couldn't bring himself to put weight on in. He leaned against the bed, wincing.  
  
"It's Race, Dave. Ya gotta do sumdin fer him. He's dyin!" Now Davy saw the dark stain on Race's lower stomach. He gasped and gently lowered Race to the bed, hollering for his mother, who came running out of the bedroom, her hair all around her, and her robe open. His father trailed after her, looking confused and disorientated.  
  
The instant she saw the boy on her bed, Mrs. Jacobs froze. Then she sprung into action.  
  
"Mayer, go get the doctor. The one that lives two floors down. David, some hot water. Sarah," she said to the girl who had just wandered into the main room, " some clean rags."  
  
Then she carefully pulled off Race's shirt and vest, revealing a wound Jack turned his head from. She gasped in shock. "How did this happen?"  
  
"Pop, he, he did it." Jack's voice was hoarse and raw as Sarah and Davy hurried over with the required items. She glanced up at him, then turned back to the task at hand, quickly using the warm water to gently clean the wound and the rags to dab at the blood that still poured from it.  
  
After what seemed like hours, Mr. Jacobs had burst in, an older man with white flyaway hair and glasses on his heels. The man bent over Race, taking his pulse and feeling his brow, then turning his attention to the horrific wound.  
  
"Not good. Not good, how long ago was this inflicted?" Jack shrugged.  
  
"Fifteen minutes, half an hoa, maybe moa." The doctor clicked his tongue and shook his head.  
  
"This requires immediate hospital assistance. Bundle the boy up as best you can and meet me downstairs. I'll find us a cab."  
  
Mrs. Jacobs did as she was told, but as Jack tried to follow her, she shook her head.  
  
"I don't think so. I saw that limp. Race will be fine, you stay here and rest up." She motioned for Mayer to pick up the limp boy and they were gone.  
  
Jack closed his eyes, not wanting to watch the door close and Race's limp hand dangle from Mayer's arms. It was all too much. He had seen that pale, no not pale, that white cold face before, in death. He buried his head in his hands as Sarah washed and wrapped his ankle.  
  
He had failed to save Race, failed to save him from the very man who should have raised them. For Jack was not simply the brother. At the age of seven, he had taken on the roles that both parents had failed to fill. He was Race's mother and father. And now he had failed him in every way possible.  
  
"Don't worry, Jack. Race'll make it. I betcha." Les's quiet voice made Jack smile. But he had seen the blood, it stained his shirt even now. He had seen too much blood, too much that should have been inside him, not on Jack's shirt. It didn't belong there. It was somebody's life fluid. The thing that flowed through their veins, and not just anyone's. It was Race's. And it belonged in his veins, not on his shirt.  
  
"Get it off," he whispered. " dere's too much a it, get it off."  
  
"Get what off, Jack?" Davy asked, worried. Jack looked up at him, begging.  
  
"Da blood. Dere's too much blood, its Race's, put it back inside 'im. Not on me, not on da street, inside him, please, too much…." The words died off as the exhaustion took over and Jack allowed himself to be pushed back and slipped into the darkness. 


	9. Back Home

Well, I have this part and one more before this story is done, and then it's on to another. Sorry if I don't write that much in the weeks to come, I have a huge AP Test to study for. So wish me luck!  
  
  
  
It was several days later when Jack finally found himself at Race's bedside. The nurse had allowed him only a few scant glances before. Then he had told her he was family and she grudgingly let him in.  
  
He hobbled in, using Crutchy's spare that the young boy had willingly given. It was a little short, but a few adjustments from Kloppman had made it decent. He slipped into the chair beside the bed.  
  
"Heya Race." He said softly to the sleeping boy. Race's face was pale and ill looking, thin and weathered. His browned eyes were closed and Jack could see the black eye given from the punches of their father. He made no sign of waking, but the doctor had said to talk to him, that maybe a familiar voice would be h helpful.  
  
"Well, da guys say hey, but dey won't let all a' us in at one time." He sighed, " We miss ya, a lot. Da old place jist ain't da same widout yer ciga smoke, or yer cards always in somebody's hands. It's quiet, way too quiet. And da boys, dey ain't da same. I told e'm, hope ya don't mind."  
  
He took a long look at Race, pretending Race was waving his hand like he always did, rolling his eyes. He took a deep breath, determined to keep going, to not brake down like he was threatening to.  
  
"We'se wus sittin' around last night, membain' stuff. Stuff aboutcha. Little tings, like da way ya always liked cigas moa dan cigarettes. Like da way ya'se wus always bummin' da rest a' us ta spotcha sumdin, dat ya had some hot tip. " he smiled at the memory, as if Race would smile too,  
  
"And Blink remembad when I was in da refuge, and ah,' he said sumdin. He said, dat de instant ya hoid about me bein' taken away, ya formed a rescue team. When dat didn't woik, ya named yaself leada until I got home. Didn't tink dey'd take oadas from a twelve yea old, but dey did. "  
  
He sniffed, trying to keep the tears back. Franticly, he wiped his eyes, but the tears wouldn't stop.  
  
"And sum a dem asked, but what if I neva came back? And he told me whatcha said. Ya said, ' dere ain't no if. Jack will come back," ya said, ' Dere ain't no if, only when."  
  
The tears were pouring down Jack's face as he spoke. Race's remained as pale and shallow as ever.  
  
"Come back ta us, Race. Don't make it be a' if ya come back, make it be a when. Please, kid." And he reached out and took Race's cold hand in his own. Slowly, he rocked back and forth, the tears following freely.  
  
Suddenly, he felt a slight pressure on his hand. Sitting up, he looked into Race's open eyes. Instantly, he sat up, ignoring the tears still running from h is eyes.  
  
"Don't call me kid." Race whispered. His voice was raw and ill used, but it was the most welcome sound in the world to Jack. Jack smiled, reaching out to touch Race's face, to make sure it wasn't some dream.  
  
"Surah, kid." Race smiled, then closed his eyes again.  
  
"When, Jack." He whispered, before Jack felt the pressure on his hand cease and the boy was back in the sleep he'd been in.  
  
But Jack did not sleep. Instead, he smoothed back the hair on his brother's head, smiling gently and wondering if perhaps there was some hope for the future.  
  
  
  
**************************************************************************** **********  
  
Race leaned heavily against Jack as he helped him up the stairs. His older brother's arm was around his waist, supporting him. Race had managed to walk most of the way to the carriage by himself, but that brief exercise had worn him out and he obligingly allowed Jack to help him up the stairs to the bunkroom.  
  
He winced as he reached the top step, his side aching and his valuable strength reserves almost drained. Jack patted his back reassuringly, as if to say only a few more steps to the bunkroom, and then only a few more to his bunk.  
  
When he pushed the door open, the room was dark, in the evening light. Race frowned, usually it would be full. But he only shrugged it away.  
  
It wasn't until he had stepped into the room that the lights flickered on and twenty voices shouted in unison.  
  
"Surprise!" Race almost jumped back, if he could have and stared, grinning as his friends jumped out of various hiding places to hug him and help him over to his bunk, all chattering and shouting about how they'd missed him and how things hadn't been the same.  
  
Race sat down, leaning against several pillows someone had propped under him. Blink handed him a cigar, already lit, and Race savored the feeling of it between his fingers.  
  
"Good ta have ya back, Race." Race smiled at the Brooklyn leader.  
  
"Good ta be back, Spot." He returned. He smiled around at his friends, Blink, Mush, Davy, Les, Spot, and the others. Even Kloppman stood in the doorway, smiling. He sighed and closed his eyes, loving every moment that he breathed, loving the smell of old paint and smoke that always hung around the bunkroom.  
  
"How ya feelin', hungry? Toirsty?" Race smiled at Jack as he shook his head. He was thankful to be out of the confining limits of the hospital, but he wondered if Jack's limits might be worse. The boy was passionately protective of Race, and had been since Race had woken up several weeks ago. He had gone so far as to chase nurses out of the room if Race looked even the slightest bit tired.  
  
He was sure he wouldn't get out of this bed for at least a few days, weeks if Jack had anything to do with it. Still, it was better than that dark place where all he could see and hear were dark shapes that whispered and howled at him, in a language that he couldn't understand. That strange place in between concsiouness and dreams.  
  
But he was tired, so tired. Slowly, he closed his eyes. The journey from the hospital had taken so much out of him. As much as he wanted, he doubted he'd be up and on the streets tomorrow.  
  
He heard slight murmurs as the older boys hushed the younger ones and slowly left the room. Only Jack remained, stroking his hair gently as he slipped off to sleep.  
  
  
  
Jack sat up in bed, staring around the dark bunkroom, trying to figure out what had awakened him. Finally, he looked down at the bunk next to him.  
  
Blink snoozed on the top, one arm hanging over the side. But below him, Race tossed and turned, wincing in his sleep as the bed touched his old wound. His hands clenched at the covers, releasing them and capturing them once again. His chest was heaving and his skin was soaked in sweat, as he whimpered in his sleep.  
  
In an instant, Jack was out of bed and by his side. The leap off the bed awoke Snipeshooter, and his loud complaining awoke Blink who leaned over his bed to see Jack pin Race's arms to his sides.  
  
Race cried out in his sleep, twisting in his brother's arms. Words fell from his lips in Italian, streaming from the very core of his being. Jack could not understand them, but he knew what Race was saying.  
  
"Mamma, no! Per favore, mamma, non lascia il me!" he begged, the words begging wrenched from him, as if someone were pulling them up out of his chest with a rope. Needless to say, Jack was frantic.  
  
Soon most of the boys were awake and watching as Jack struggled to hold Race down, all the while trying desperately to wake him up. Suddenly, Race's eyes opened and he relaxed.  
  
Almost immediately, he stumbled from his bed and lurched to the washroom, bending over the toilet, heaving everything inside. Jack knelt beside him, rubbing his back. Race leaned back against the wall as Jack pulled the chain. Race's chest was still heaving and dry sobs left his mouth as he wrapped his arms around his legs. Jack took the glass of water Mush handed him and held it up in front of Race's face. Race seemed to realize their presence for the first time. Gingerly, he took the glass and downed it in one go.  
  
"Ya okay?" Jack asked. Race nodded gingerly. He allowed Jack to help him to his feet and back to his bunk. Once there, he lay down. But the images, the memories would not leave him.  
  
"Jack?" Jack turned to him. "Stay?" Jack nodded and knelt beside the bed. He brushed Race's hair out of his eyes.  
  
"Nightmare?" Race nodded.  
  
"It was jist like dat night. I remembed. I hate remembain'. And now dat I do, it won't go away." Jack sighed. Race had never told him just what had happened.  
  
"Ya wanna tell me?" Race nodded. Jack wondered if he noticed the other boys slowly gathering around. He wasn't sure that he wanted them all knowing, but then he decided he didn't care.  
  
"It was right afta ya left, when he came in." Race's voice was soft and trembling as he related the events of that night. The detail he recalled them with was heartbreaking and Jack winced more than once. For once, his imagination could never come up with anything that was worse than the truth. And to think that Race had kept it all inside for all these years.  
  
When it was over Jack took a deep breath, Race was gazing at him from glazed eyes, his mind still back in the past. He wrapped his arms around his brother and held him tight.  
  
"Ya know, I don't memba her funeral. Da you?" Race asked him. Jack nodded.  
  
"Yeah, we buried her in dis little place jist outside da city. Nice, and clean. On a hill." Race frowned, making a silent vow that he would visit her grave if it was the last thing he would ever do. 


	10. A Journey

That's it! It's done! Well? What did you think? I hope you liked it as much as I did writing it. I am working on another, but then I may not have much out for a little bit. I have a lot of things going on in the next couple of weeks. 

            A concert on Wednesday, an AP test next Friday, and two hours after I get home from that, I have to go back to school for another concert. Then a week after that, I'm going with my school up to Toronto for a music competition. See what I mean? 

            But I will try to write more and I want to thank you guys so much. Every single one of you who reviewed, you guys are great! T.H, I can't wait to see how your story turns out, Kora, you're great! Race's-goil-only, finish that story! You know I love you all! There is no way I can thank you all here, but you guys know it! Thanks so much for your input. 

            Here it is, the last part. 

            A year almost passed before Race found himself in a small cemetery just north of the city. The noise and smells of the city faded as he walked the small country road, listening to things he never heard in his home. It had taken him one train hop and two rides on passing carts before he arrived. 

            Jack had passed the offer, telling him it was something he needed to do alone, and told him how to get there.  And now Race stopped at the rusted iron gate. 

            There wasn't a soul in sight, unless you counted the birds in the trees, or the cows in the field to his right. A slight breeze was blowing his hair about as he pulled off his cap and shoved it into his back pocket. 

            There was something gentle and calming here, he could see why she loved it so. She had been there only once, Jack had said, on a picnic she had made just for the three of them, and she had told him, as her youngest son slept in her arms that she wanted to be buried in the quiet grove that reminded her of her home back in the old country. 

            It was soso quiet, and so calming. He pushed the gate back and entered, eyeing the weather beaten gravestones. Some were leaning over, some still stood straight, some were bent and broken, some craved with intricate designs, flowers, or angels on top, peering down almost disapprovingly as he passed, others had crumbled until only a lump of rock remained, the name long gone.  

            But the one he was looking for might still be standing. The flowers in his hand, which he had scooped up along the way as a last minute idea, trembled as he searched through the barely visible path through the twisting mounds of earth and rock.  

            He carefully knelt and eyed each marker, trying to make out the faded writing on each one, and wondering, halfheartedly, if any of these people under him ever had folks like him come, reading their name and thinking about them. 

            He passed a child, an unnamed man, a boy not unlike himself, an old couple, a young mother, all reduced to a name, a date, and a word or two. Rest in peace, with God. 

            Finally he found what he was looking for. Tucked snugly away in the small corner by the old church, was a simple marker. There were no angels, no flowers, no signs of decoration. Only the words:

Marina Higgins May 13,186 

**June 1, 1889**

**Beloved Mother**

            Race knelt in front of the grave, placing the flowers on the ground beside him. The grass grew wild and high here, making the marker seem even more ancient, though it was only ten years. 

            "Hey Ma." He whispered. No one answered him, but he wasn't expecting an answer. He glanced at the smaller marker beside his mothers.  Then he shook his head, the girl had not even lived long enough to be named, only her dates were printed on the stone, with the words **She is with God.**

            "It's ova, Ma."  He said, turning his gaze back to the larger stone. "He's dead.   And not soon enough."  
            Race sighed.  This was something he needed to do. He longed for a cigarette, or a cigar, or something to calm his nerves, but he had none. Besides, it couldn't be right to smoke in a cemetery. 

            "Well, I guess I should tell ya dat Jack, or I guess ya would say Francis, is fine. He's got hisself a goil, nice one too. And, ah, youse woudda been prouda him, ma. Youse was right when ya said he was gonna do great tings. I jist wish ya coulda been dere." 

            He smiled as the wind blew again, whistling only slightly. He sighed as the breeze whipped his hair back, and closed his eyes. 

            "I wish I coulda done sumdin, Ma. Sumdin ta make ya come back, ta let Jack know how much he means ta me. He saved me life, Ma. Took me ta da hospt'l when Pop tried ta kill me, walkin' all da way from da bridge wid a busted ankle. Ya'd a been so prouda him, and maybe, " he whispered. "a me." 

            A bird sang in the tree above him, and Race noticed his face was wet. He brushed at the tears, trying to stop them and failing. 

            "Wouldcha be proud a me, Ma? I know I'se ain't da best, or da smartest, but I do play a mean game a poka, and I'se da best gambla in New York, if dat means anytin'. Don't tink so, but it's sumdin'. And I'se trying' ta be a good brudda, if dat counts." 

            The bird stopped singing, and Race didn't notice. He only sat, staring at the marker, empty of feeling, or emotion, telling nothing of the woman whose name it bore. Empty and hollow, yet it gave just a bit of hope for a young boy who was searching for something even he wasn't sure of. Love maybe, forgiveness perhaps. 

            "I miss ya, Ma. Moa den woids can really say, and I wish youse was heah ta tell me tings is gonna be alright.'

            But whatever it was he needed, Race found it in that gentle spring wind. The breeze blew by his ear, forming words only audible to the heart. And the voice, singing on the wind, an old song in an older language, the words blurred and distorted by age and wear, but the tune was unmistakable. 

            Race got to his knees and gently picked up the withered flowers, the single rose he'd found on the bush, drooping and faded. It pierced his heart that he couldn't do better for her, couldn't even bring her proper flowers. But he had done his best and he hoped effort counted. He gently placed the small bundle of flowers on top of the gravestone, then got to his feet. 

            He quietly made his way to the gate again, then turned back. The rose was spread out, fully bloomed on the headstone. Race smiled and closed the gate behind him, feeling full of something. Something he hadn't felt in a long time, and he set off for home, listening to the whistling wind. The wind that sang the songs of old and hinted at a promise of a better tomorrow. 


End file.
